


bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints

by thewriterofperfectdisasters



Series: Fall Out Boy Fic February 2015~ [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: ((not intentional but well received by parties involved)), Bruises, Canon Compliant, Gap Filler, Kinda, M/M, Marking, Sexual Content, a'ight okay thinly veiled marking kink, season 3-ish, underage bc ian's 17, whoops this got a bit smut-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:07:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterofperfectdisasters/pseuds/thewriterofperfectdisasters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fuck, Mickey could fell himself falling for Ian, and as much as that scared him, it made him want to keep the other boy as close to him as he could. Ian had charged into Mickey’s circle, like a redheaded bull in a fucking china shop, and Mickey was holding on for dear life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints

**Author's Note:**

> fic inspired by one fucking line (aka the title) from 'centuries' by fall out boy. yep. sticking to my promise so far of having lyrics as titles for this series.

There was something of a problem with having the bedroom attached to the bathroom, and that was – obviously – the constant thoroughfare. It was like Mickey didn’t even have a bedroom – he was in the fucking second living room or some shit, because there was always someone coming through his room. It made it difficult to get any fucking privacy, whether he wanted to jerk off in the comfort of his own fucking room, or watch porn, or, occasionally, just lie around in his fucking boxers.

That might not seem like such a big deal, but it was the middle of summer, and Ian had recently started insisting on fucking Mickey face to face, and he held on to Mickey’s thighs like he was a man about to float off the face of the earth. And really, excuse Mickey if he didn’t want his family to start questioning him because he had long, thin bruises across his legs.

At first, he didn’t even notice them. Certainly hadn’t realised what the fuck was happening at the time, because Gallagher was hitting all the right spots, and Mickey was flying high on a fucking cloud of happiness, biting Ian’s shoulder to stifle his moans, and digging his nails into Ian’s shoulder blades. Fuck, he had missed this, and maybe Ian had been fucking other people while he was in juvie, but really? Guy was just practising, and Mickey was verging on fucking thankful that Ian was kind of a slut, because _damn_ – he’d gotten better at this, and Mickey was reaping the benefits.

He was reaping them _hard_ , and it was fucking beautiful.

Ian had been pounding into him roughly, resting his head on Mickey’s shoulder as he lay on the bench of the dugout. He was making these little breathy noises, occasionally letting out a _“Fuck, Mick”_ or a moan if Mickey had enough wits about him to clench his muscles when Ian slowed his pace a bit. He loved those noises, and he loved even more that he was the one pulling them from Ian’s throat.

Ian had a death grip on Mickey’s thighs, which was probably where the bruises came from. His long fingers were wrapped around and tight enough to give a dull pain, which served to mix and intensify the feelings swirling around his body. Ian bit into Mickey’s shoulder, and came with a grunt, his hips stuttering but keeping enough force to push Mickey over mere moments later.

Mickey hadn’t realised until he got home and had a shower that his legs were a bit tender, though there was no visible reason for it. He inspected his shoulder and thanked every God he could think of, that Ian hadn’t done the same thing as Mickey and sunk his teeth in to the point of fucking marks. That had been the one thing Mickey had held firm on from the start, and fully fucking intended to stick to – no visible marks. Seeing as Mickey had virtually no privacy; that went from _“nothing visible”_ to _“nothing at all”_.

Ian didn’t seem to mind, and fuck knew he relished in Mickey biting him with his teeth or nails, and if anything, it seemed to spur him on to get more souvenirs from Mickey, and he launched himself back into fucking him with renewed vigour. Mickey only bit Ian to stop from crying out, which seemed ingrained in him as a survival technique more than anything, and his nails?

Fuck, Mickey could fell himself falling for Ian, and as much as that scared him, it made him want to keep the other boy as close to him as he could. Ian had charged into Mickey’s circle, like a redheaded bull in a fucking china shop, and Mickey was holding on for dear life.

When Mickey woke up the next morning, he was sweaty as fuck, so he kicked his sheets off and lay in the open air, which really wasn’t that much cooler than being under all his covers. But when he saw the purple lines across his thighs, he jerked the covers straight back over himself. _Fucking Gallagher._ The death grip had blossomed into a mean set of bruises overnight.

He bit his lip and tentatively reached down under the covers to prod at his thighs, sending dull waves of pain down his legs. Ian probably planned it that way. Mickey sighed and grabbed his phone off the shelf behind his bed.

**Text Sent: I.G**

_u fuckin left bruises on me!_

**Text From: I.G**

_huh? when?_

**Text Sent: I.G**

_last night! dugout? fuckin legs are PURPLE. we said no marks!_

**Text From: I.G**

_oh shit! i'm sorry! didn't realise!_

**Text From: I.G**

_send me a pic? :)_

**Text Sent: I.G**

_u don’t get pics for that_

**Text From: I.G**

_:( how bad? like from 1-10?_

**Text Sent: I.G**

_like 9???? bruises that’ll stay for weeks jfc_

**Text From: I.G**

_omg i'm sorry :s_

**Text Sent: I.G**

_no ur not_

**Text From: I.G**

_not really no_

Mickey rolled his eyes and pulled the sheets back to expose his legs. He bit his lip and lifted his legs, putting his feet flat on his bed, so he could see the bruises properly. Mickey pressed his fingertip into one of the deep purple lines and removed it, watching the colour return. Jesus Christ, he was acting like he’d never seen a bruise before, when he’d definitely had more than his fair share of them.

It was nice to have them from something he enjoyed this time, though.

As per Gallagher’s request, despite saying he wouldn’t, he took a quick picture and sent it to Ian, receiving a text of _“holy shit”_ for his efforts.

Mickey stood, and the edge of his boxers only covered half of the lines. Shit. He wandered into his bathroom and stripped off to jump into the shower, turning it onto cold. Even the water in the fucking pipes was lukewarm, and that pissed him off to no end. As he showered, rinsing the sweat off his skin, he got used to the bruises, and as he wrapped a towel around his waist, he had to admit he kinda liked them.

 

**Text From: I.G**

_u still up for robbin ned’s place later?_

**Text Sent: I.G**

_yeah man im there_

**Text From: I.G**

_cool :)_

**Text From: I.G**

_really am sorry about ur legs btw_

Mickey whipped the towel from his waist and dried off quickly, running his fingertips over the lines once more, before covering them with his jeans.

 

**Text Sent: I.G**

_don't be_

**Text Sent: I.G**

_i like them_

**Text From: I.G**

_me too_

**Author's Note:**

> remEMBER MEEEEEEEE FOR CENTURIEEEEEEEEEEES
> 
> (im sorry)
> 
> [(im over here if u want me)](http://im-not-his-keeper.tumblr.com/)


End file.
